Agusa's sharp gaze flicked toward the furious coachman, and in that instant, everything clicked into place. This man, this wild-eyed, red-faced old ghost, must have been the owner of the Winter Eagle. The very same bird that Leier had beheaded without a second thought. The scent of its blood, dried and clinging to Agusa's armor, must have reached him. Perhaps through some kind of magic, perhaps through nothing more than a heightened sense honed by years of training. Either way, it didn't matter.
"Do you have any idea how much money I spent on that eagle?! You soulless mongrel!" - The old man screamed. His frail body trembled with rage, veins bulging across his wrinkled forehead. His bony hands clenched around the reins even tighter, making the horses's hooves hit the ground.
For a moment, it seemed as if he might have a heart attack from sheer fury. But instead, he turned toward the armored soldiers standing by the ornate red carriage.
